Breathe Deep in Shadow
by Kris Miller
Summary: My current project for writing class. An original story based on SH.


Title: I – When the angels wept  
Project: Silent Hill: Breathe Deep in Shadow  
Warnings: Disturbing imagery? I guess.  
Legal junk: Silent Hill and its respective characters are copyrighted to Konami Inc. Raven/Thomas are copyrighted to me.

Three hundred and ninety-six. 

I'm not really sure where the number came from. I can hear some of the nurses whispering, but that only happens when they think I'm asleep; and that can be hard to fake, sometimes… especially on a day like today. I suppose it's not really important, not in the stretch of things; it's Thomas's number, anyway. These sorts of things are beyond me. After all, it's not nice to tamper with someone else's things. But this one time… just this once, I couldn't help it.

Patricia had screamed loudly. I remember it clear as a bell, even today, even as I sit here and watch the rain kiss the world outside the window. It's not a world I'm too familiar with. Perhaps Thomas is, but I can never get him to fill me in; he's elusive like that, you know. When she'd walked in, prim and proper, starched white outfit and all, she had found something not of her world… not of the world beyond the glass, either. This was my world… Raven's world.

A world where dark-haired boys can carve numbers into their stomach without someone finding it odd, a world where the rain is like acid and the floor is rust. You have to forgive me, though… I'm taking credit for something that isn't mine. The rust belongs to Thomas; the red, the blood, the everything that makes the human heart cry. Thomas isn't human, though. He's a foul-tempered child and I can't say I've ever gotten along with him, but sometimes I find myself with a certain lack of options.

Would it be terribly cliché to tell you that today was one of those days?

Perhaps, but my entire life has been a Hollywood moment, or so the doctors say. It's not my place to judge, because I've never seen a movie. Never seen a television screen, nor heard the spinning of a projector wheel or read the display on a videotape player. Why? It's simple, really. Despite all the white you might see, this isn't a normal hospital. I've also heard that some institutions like my own are rather fond of the color green; but this is something else I will never have the chance to see.

You know why, don't you? It's because of Thomas.

Do you want to know more about Thomas? He's about five feet and two inches tall, and likes to wear his hair up, because it "makes it easier to manage." You've probably gathered enough already to know that he's a brash, somewhat uncaring individual, but don't hold that against him. The one time I did, he told me it was just part of the job… and who am I to call him a liar? He has no reason to lie about something like that.

Myself, well, that's different. Most of the nurses will claim that I'm their most manageable "patient"… though I use the term loosely, mind you, because I don't get any real treatment in this place. My room is a square and my bed is also square, and the door and the tiles and the world. Thomas told me one time that he was a triangle; and I was a circle. I laughed at him and told him to not be silly, because were both obviously people, and not simple shapes. He glared at me, though, and wouldn't talk to me for a very long time.

They've given me the name Raven. Sometimes Patricia will come in and see me sitting on the bed, hair down like I enjoy wearing it, because it's soft and shiny and not white. I don't know why she insists on putting it in that damnable ponytail, but I don't tell her to stop, so it's really my fault. She'll start to talk about certain things, like how I look better today, how I was prettier than her own daughter, something I sincerely hoped she never said in front of aforementioned child.

I am currently thirteen years of age. I had a birthday not more than a week ago, and I have to say I really enjoyed it, because everyone came to see me, even Doctor Jordan. Of course he was busy and couldn't stay too long, but just the fact that he took time from his busy schedule to come see me brightened my day. A big part of me wanted him to stay longer; for him to outlast all the "pretty hair," and "pretty face," and the ever-popular "poor child." But he didn't. We can't have everything, you know.

Thomas says he is nineteen, and I believe him. There's no reason not to.

It had been raining that day, too; rained harder than ever before. Everyone could see that it made me happy. I would walk up to the window and feel as if I could put my hands through all the glass, the nasty chicken wire, through the squares. I couldn't, of course, but still… it made me happy. Happier than anything else possibly has, except for later that day, when the number came.

Doctor Jordan had left and the only people hanging about were Patricia and her friend Leslie, but that's only because they were on duty; the birthday craze had left and it was time to leave the "poor child" alone. If I remember right, I was being particularly bothersome that day. Whenever Patricia would try to put my hair up, I'd tug the band right out, like it was nothing. Nothing at all. She put her hands on her hips and gave me this indignant look, like I'd offended her.

"One day, I'll braid your hair and it won't be so easy to take out, darlin'." I looked over my shoulder, over all the white, black spilling onto bleached nothingness. There was never a time before when I appreciated my contrast to this world so much. My eyes are black, too. Did I mention that already? You'll have to forgive me.

"Would you, really?" It was an honest question, which was somewhat rare from me. I always enjoyed speaking in riddles or just being unnecessarily cryptic, because it made the nurses get all fussy. Thomas liked it, too. Patricia pursed her bright lips in thought and shrugged, telling me she would.

She told me she would.

Told me –

_Dearest child  
Can't you see?  
It's the house of red in which we gather  
And from the yellow that we feed  
The skies grow black  
And the fog gives way  
To a world of hate  
Where demons play._

She told me she'd braid my hair, and I simply nodded. I wanted her to come through with that someday, but I have a feeling she will not. Patricia sat down alongside me and pulled me close, though it was much like holding a doll, I suppose; her dark hands drawing me against her breast, and patting my head, as if I were some sort of animal, a domesticated pet. In a lot of ways, I matched that description quite well. After that, she was gone. My birthday was over and I felt like writing… so I did.

This poem of sorts didn't finish with the night, no. It went on longer, through the days, gradually building up, but in a way it was somewhat disappointing because I already knew the ending. Once everyone was gone, and it grew too dark to see the rain falling anymore, I laid back and cut the skin of my stomach. It was somewhat hard with how close they keep my nails trimmed, but I still did it. I was proud of myself… and I think Thomas was, too.

Three hundred and ninety-six.

Three. Nine. Six.

_White is red and red is black  
This is the place of fallen saints  
And cruelty reborn  
Everlasting  
Never-ending  
Your soul is no longer pure._

Poor Patricia, bless her heart. When she came in and saw the blood-soaked sheets and blood-soaked hands and bits of skin under my nails, I think she just about had a heart attack. Doctor Jordan came immediately, as he always did when this sort of thing happened, and did some things I can't exactly remember. At night, when I run the pads of my fingers over the still fresh scar, I can almost see what happened; but alas, 'tis lost on me, one of the great poets might've said in their day.

Who am I to speak of great poets? The floor beneath my bed was certainly getting cramped, and I couldn't write anymore. It needed to be perfect, too; the pain didn't bother me much, but I started to feel dizzy and had to lie down and ask Patricia to bring Doctor Jordan. He would try to be understanding and patient, but his actions screamed frustration. I know that sort of thing just by looking at someone.

So they kept washing it away… the poem beneath my bed, the red lettering that so sloppily proclaimed the quiet place; Thomas's place, and the name of that too escapes me. It didn't really matter, though. I continued to write, when everyone was sleeping, when Patricia had gone home to tend to her ugly daughter and Doctor Jordan was off worrying about his wife founding out about his affair. The rule was, when you started to feel sick, stop; and then once you felt better, you could go on.  
It wasn't important that they washed it away. I knew the whole thing in my head. It was as if Thomas was reading me a bedtime story, as he sometime did, but the voice was entirely different. Unsettling… I didn't like it, but it was there.

_Let the rain fall  
As the angels do  
And we'll all be saved  
Paradise discovered_

I'd never gotten to the end, though. Not before the janitor did his job of cleaning up the mess, mopping up the blood of the very child sitting in the corner, staring out the window. He only felt disgust for me, but I can't necessarily blame him. I don't ask forgiveness for the things I do; I simply want to finish, and I knew the time was drawing close that I'd do just that.

I had a visitor today. Today, on eleven slash four slash ninety-five. I read that off of one of the nurses' logs, but I'm not supposed to look. The man had bright blue eyes that almost hurt to look at, and short, brown hair. I can't exactly recall what he'd been saying; I think it had something to do with something, about the world weeping and shadows and all of that sort of thing. You know how those people can be. Before he left, I noticed his face was sort of mashed together; no real distinguishable features, as if it was just one big blank slate. Isn't that funny?

After he'd gone, there was a piece of paper lying on my bed that clearly read "JESUS SAVES." I'm not really sure how I learned to read, as I didn't have a formal education… but I'm sure it must've occurred sometime before I came to this place. The pamphlet didn't make a ton of sense to me, so I put it under the bed for the janitor to clean up.

In doing so, I of course had no idea that it would be the reason he quit his job at the hospital. I would never do something like that intentionally. Thomas, maybe, but not me, not sweet little Raven with hair so black, eyes so dark, like a sad little… well, raven. That's how I got my name, after all.  
Black soul, just like my –

_We all fall down  
In the house of Samael_

_In Silent Hill._

Eyes.

What was I saying? I tend to get distracted, but you'll have to forgive me. In any case, I finished the poem the day when Bart quit. I remember sitting in the corner and watching, and maybe I'd been smiling, confident, arrogant about what I'd done.

Every night I'd split those same letters, ripped away the same bandages for the ink with which I write. I'd politely asked them for a pen, but the request wasn't enough. See what I mean about now having options?

I remember the name of Thomas's place now. It's called Silent Hill, and I've seen it in my dreams, even seen it on paper; there was a brochure in Doctor Jordan's office the next night, when I'd snuck in there without asking. I believe I earned it, though. I really hate sneaking out some times, because it's so dark and quiet and I just know there's something Thomas around the corner, and it freaks me out… so I find myself running about, as if some specter was afoot.

No, they don't lock the doors or have a twenty-four hour watch. Like I mentioned earlier, it's not your normal hospital. Besides, the brochure wasn't that interesting, even though it offered a glimpse of the world outside the window. That was kind of nice, but I was tired and wanted to get to bed. It was raining again, by the way; even though you can't see it, you can definitely hear it.

There'd never been a night where I felt so alone in the hospital.

Eventually, I found out that I really was.

Someone had left my door open; it was the first thing I noticed when I woke up. Usually, they always make sure to close the doors because there are quite a few visitors wandering the halls, and it's probably best that they don't interact with the patients. From what I can tell, there's some real oddballs in this place; people that scream and cut themselves and stare out the window all day. Thomas tells me that he's seen some of them, and that we certainly don't belong in the same place as people like that. It's the one thing he's said that I'm not sure I believe, because, well… we have to be in here for a reason, right?

I'd gotten up and sipped from the water at my bedside, and it wasn't very good. They say water doesn't have a taste, but if you leave it for a few days it definitely does, and it's not pleasant at all. Eventually I worked up the courage to peek out the door; there was no lock on it, and Doctor Jordan got really upset one time when he caught me looking out into the hall.

There was no one to chide me, though. Things were quiet, as always, the dim lights above buzzing idly. Where was everyone, though? Usually you could see at least one nurse walking down the hall, or a patient ambling their way to the bathroom; those capable were required to do so, because no one particularly enjoyed the bed-panning situation, especially with the older invalids. A lot of them just went where they were, and the nurses would call in faithful Bart to do the cleaning duties.

The day before, when he'd found the "JESUS SAVES" paper along with all that blood, he threw down his mop and quit. I'd finished the words, so I was appropriately smug; I think it only helped in the man's decision, because while he gasped in horror, I had to hold back a chuckle and I don't believe I did the best job. Anyway, I'm getting off track, aren't I?  
Poor Bart, bless his soul.

I'd stepped out into the hall and had a good look around… the hall, that is. To be honest, I was a bit too afraid to wander about anywhere else; there was just something about this place that made it unmanageable without a hand to hold within your own, so I sought that comfort first in Doctor Jordan's office; and after finding it empty, promptly headed to the nurses' station. It was just down the hall, and not too much of a bother, and there was someone they're dead there, sitting at the desk.

From outside the barred window, I could see brown skin, but nothing else… not that anything else was needed. It was definitely Patricia, because she was the only "black" woman that worked at the hospital. I never quite understood that. She wasn't nearly dark enough to be referred to as black… my hair is black, she wasn't. Needless to say, I was relieved; she was my favorite nurse, and treated me the best, much better than that redheaded meanie Sabrina. Always talking about who and who, this and that, you know… gossip, and lots of it. She angered Thomas.

What I found wasn't really Patricia… well, not how I remembered her.

There was indeed a dark skinned woman sitting in the chair, but the posture was slumped, an arm hanging slack over the side. Thomas was telling me there was something wrong, wanting to take over; but this was my world, Raven's world, the one where white walls were still white and the only blood to be found anywhere was under the bed of a "poor child." Taped over her face was a photograph; a close-up of Patricia's modest features. I'd always found her somewhat pretty.

Imagine, if you will, a youth just preparing for his teen years; with flowing, ebon locks, and plain white pajamas the same color of every wall you'd find in this place. He approaches slowly, cautiously… there's something very wrong with this, but as one is drawn to observe a train wreck, he can't help but lift the picture. Empty. 

Nothing.

A gaping hole of blood and bone, where someone's face should've been, where eyes and the brows that went along with, where the brain should've been. Scooped out, as if by some large spoon, the inner edges of the hollowed out head smooth and polished. I gave a soft cry and let the picture drop into place, immediately feeling tears burning my eyes. What was this? Some kind of horrible joke? I blindly stumbled out into the hall, briefly aware that I saw the dead hand twitch, the head… that horrible gaping maw loll to the side.

The first thing I heard when I stumbled out of the nurse's station was the click of the elevator from the end of the hall; it was a familiar sound, as people always came and went, click click, all day long. Except now it was Doctor Jordan who came to see me, bloodied scalpel in hand, and no photograph to protect me. His coat was splattered with red, stained as if it'd been that way for a hundred centuries. It wasn't him. It couldn't have been… and Patricia was fine, too. It was just some kind of horrible dream.

I think I screamed then. He was coming towards me, faceless, mindless, dead. And what did I do? Simply leaned up against the wall, proceeding to cry. You have to understand, even for a mental patient, something like this could be quite hard on you. These were the people that'd grown to be my family, and now they were monsters without features, and I knew what Jordan wanted to do. He wanted to cut out my face, make me like them, and…  
Thomas grabbed me by the arm and pushed. It was time to go.

I headed blindly down the hall, away from Jordan and Patricia, or what was left of them; my frantic search was for a staircase, but I'd never gone much farther from my room than the nurses' station in all my years here. At least they made it identifiable. I pushed the door inwards with my shoulder and nearly collapsed, staggering into the stairwell.

Then… there were steps. Above me, coming down from the roof. Blinding quick, deafening, racing down the stairs. Someone… something, running. I had to move. Thomas's voice was so loud now, and I had no choice but to follow his instructions, because… well, you know. He just knows more about this sort of thing than I do.

So I raced back. Tried to outrun whatever it was coming down, feeling right behind me now as I dropped down onto the ground level, crying and screaming my head off. I think when I burst through that door I remember seeing at least a glimpse of the thing on the stairs, a horrible, horrible creature with a massive bloodshot eye, it's body comprised of burnt flesh contorted at odd angles.

It stared at me… and I know I'll never forget that.  
I'd never been to the first floor before. Sometimes you could hear things from down here up there, but that was a rarity, considering all the cheap tile flooring in the way. But they were never very pleasant things… and now I know why. Strewn about the hallway were wheelchairs, gurneys, and the like; not a single one of them was unoccupied. The entire floor was soaked with blood… and something much worse. Hearts. Human hearts, the freshly torn ones still trying to live.

Things on the ceiling. Small creatures, with long, nasty arms and those sharp claws… I don't need to tell you what they were doing, do I? No, of course not. These were hospital monsters; surgical in the way they removed the life from these poor people. There wasn't so much as a single cut on the victims, just that terrible hole from which their hearts had been pulled. I'd caught their attention too, that much was obvious. I screamed again and ran, nearly slipping on blood as I went.

The town was alive with all sorts of unnatural noises; and I could feel Thomas on the fringes of my sanity. I would need him to stay alive in this place; I was quickly going under, and no one else would keep me from drowning. I ran my fingers through my hair, and closed my eyes.

  
---

The rain stopped eventually, but I feel something worse has settled down, something that I feared even in my dreams. This fog was different from the kind that lingered on the ground outside the window, mingling with the grass and all the creatures it might contain. This fog swallowed the world beyond the glass, the world that I found myself immersed in unwillingly. I can honestly say I wished for the hospital again… even though it's just a few yards away, that place isn't the hospital.

I've managed to fight off Thomas for now. I think I must've slept for at least an hour or so, but even now, the thought of sleep does little more than frighten me. There's somewhat of a half-shed in front of the building that's actually a bus stop, and that's where I stayed until the shakes would dissipate; I'd just never counted on dozing the way I had. Perhaps it was all this damnable mist… it certainly isn't natural, I can tell you that much.

Cars would drive by all the time in my time here. It was a common occurrence to hear at least fifty vehicles roll across these poorly paved roads on any given day… it was something I often listened for, simply because it was evidence enough that I was still alive and this place was real, not just some terrible purgatory. But now, that was all gone. The only sound here was that sad sounding wail, so familiar to me.

For a moment, I thought I remembered. One time Patricia came in to sit with me, and asked if I wanted to watch the television; I don't know what I'd been thinking that day, but it obviously wasn't normal, because I had agreed. There was a show about whales, huge fish that people sometimes go out on boats to see and take pictures of their tails, and they made these long, sorrowful sounds – at least, that's how they sounded to me – and at first I thought it was quite pretty.

But something always comes along to ruin it. When you continue to listen, the sound contorts, twists like some dark shape that shouldn't exist. It was the same with everything. Whatever was out there, out in the town, well… they definitely weren't whales. I didn't need Thomas to tell me that. Not that it'd be much better if they were, I guess. Things of that size always creeped me out. I moved quietly through the town, sticking to the sidewalk, avoiding the silhouettes that would sometime pass far too close in the street. I was definitely lost… I'd never been outside my room, never outside the squares and the glass and the white. I could see clothes through the window of one shop, one of the only that didn't have its blinds drawn; I gave the door a gentle nudge and slipped inside.

It was dark, naturally, but it looked safe enough. Soft gray light filtered in through the window, casting everything in a dull hue. I'm lucky that I'd stumbled on such a place, because it was getting progressively colder outside, and the hospital pajamas weren't cutting it anymore. As I stripped down, I could just imagine the owner coming out of the back and blasting me, thinking me one of the monsters, a thought I decided wasn't the best to have so I quickly shook it away.

Still, I couldn't help but be somewhat nervous about the cracked door behind the counter, with only darkness behind it. I tugged things from the shelves, tearing off tags and labels, dressing more appropriately for the chill outside.  
Despite my dressing fervor, my hands still froze when I heard that terrible wail, so close… too close to even consider it being outside.

I finished tugging the sweatshirt down over my head, being as silent as humanly possible, listening to the footsteps… unpleasant sounding things, like unwrapped meat stepping on concrete, that sort of thing. The sound quickly transferred to carpet as the thing poked its head out of the back door and loosed another wail. I would've liked nothing more than to be able to cover my ears, but I couldn't move. Thomas was telling me to keep put, and he always knew best when it came to this sort of thing.

It wandered it's way in a seemingly blind manner out into the front part of the shop. The best way to describe it was like a man in shape, though it's head resembled like… a plant of some sort. You know, a pod or flower that hasn't bloomed yet; and when it cried, the head would open up and emit that terrible sound. It had no eyes that I could see, and its skin was charred, a dark brown that was rotting off and revealing slick red and pink beneath it.

The creature meandered about, reaching out with brittle fingers to test its surroundings, and for a moment I thought it was indeed blind, as I'd assumed. I found myself inching ever so slowly towards the door, but once it headed in that direction, I knew I'd never be able to get there without bumping into it. I'd rather not test my ability to run from another creature. Without Thomas, I would've died on those stairs.

I moved back away, careful not to obstruct it's path. When it stopped moving, that's when I became worried, because I had time to think. How had it been making that noise? It had no mouth with which to do so; no facial features at all. It took a single step in my direction, and that's when I saw the lines; creasing the misshapen head, splitting it… just like a blooming flower.

The inside was a dark, bloody red, a gaping maw that was lined fully with teeth. The seemingly lax strips of flesh hardened and became a four-pronged mouth, and that wretched wail came forth, somewhat expectedly… and it had seen me. That frantically searching eyeball, imbedded in the flesh near the back of its throat looking about wildly, before coming to deadly focus. 

_MOVE!_

I'd just barely managed to slip out of the way as it charged, bringing a shelf of folded jeans crashing down onto the floor. The door was an option, I suppose, but it'd just give chase… and I wouldn't be able to outrun it. For all I knew, it would attract others, and I knew there were more out there. You could hear them, their voices almost sad, otherworldly and ethereal in tone. I clumsily jumped over the counter and just barely managed to not hurt myself, watching the creature steady once more with frightened eyes.

My knee hit something out of view; and really, I wasn't all that surprised to find the handgun tucked underneath the store counter, because it made sense; and because Thomas had let me know it was there. But no matter how much direction he gave, I wasn't him; I couldn't shoot one of these things. As the monster hissed, I realized I didn't have much of a choice, and stood to fire into its open mouth.

The trigger wouldn't depress, though. Foolish little Raven didn't turn off the safety, did he? It was charging again and it leapt up onto the counter with frightening ease, bearing down on me just after I'd managed to flick the lever; and then the reports were all I heard, effectively censoring the creature's squeals of pain. It staggered for a moment, blood running in heavy streams down it's chest and arms, before it collapsed; I'd just narrowly avoided it's landing on me.

Thomas saved me again, but I was getting tired. That was okay; I think he was ready now. With a sigh I pushed the door from which the creature had emerged open, staring into the relative darkness of the alley between shops. It seemed safe enough, but things obviously weren't as they seemed… so it was best to keep moving for now. There had to be police in this town, because I remember hearing the sirens once or twice before. Tucking the firearm in the waist of my pants, I tugged the hemline of the sweater down over it, and began to move. Thomas would be awake soon… all that was left to do was find a safe place to sleep, and to pray for the people and creatures of this world, the world beyond the glass.


End file.
